


The Art Of Coming To The Rescue

by antic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: BAMF Winchesters, Gen, Infamous Winchesters, Kidnapping, Nobody Touches Sammy, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 20:35:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antic/pseuds/antic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some ideas you shouldn't touch. Same goes for some people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art Of Coming To The Rescue

**Author's Note:**

> All is pretty much happening around late season 5.

John gaped.

“What the hell?” he screamed at last, panicking. Two sly smirks answered him. “The fuck are you smiling about? Are you fucking insane?!” he started pacing jerkily.

“Dude, calm down!” Gary put his arms in front of him in a seemingly soothing motion. “It’s cool,” he assured.

“ _Nothing_ is cool,” John emphasized through gritted teeth. “You idiots! What the hell?!”

Now they were at least starting to look a little unsettled. Good. Maybe he was finally getting through. Stupid fucks.

“Do you have a death wish?” he stopped abruptly, waiting for an answer. “Do you?!”

They looked at each other.

“Why did you even do it, huh?” he approached them. “The fuck?!”

“Everyone’s talking about it,” mumbled Dick, squaring his shoulders. “It needs to be done.”

“What,” barked John. He heard a noise coming from the next room. He seethed.

“We have to get rid of him,” answered Gary instead. “Do it the right way.”

John let out a desperate laugh, shaking his head.

“There _is_ no right way!” he yelled and pointed in the direction of the now quiet room. “You know how many have tried? Some said they succeeded and then were never heard of again! Fucking coincidence? Don’t fucking think so, so don’t you fucking dare say to me it’s cool!”

“What are you talking about?” Gary furrowed his brow; Dick leaned closer, leg twitching.

“Do you have any fucking idea what you’ve just done?” John almost whispered. Usually he wasn’t big on swearing, but right now there were no words. They all knew that and they all knew their presence was tightly connected to things one never wanted to experience. “No? Then let me kindly spell it out for you,” he huffed. “We’ve got Sam fucking Winchester in our safe room and his fucking brother probably on his way to kill us right the fuck _now_.”

 

 

Sitting next to the metal door and bracing himself for the inevitable confrontation, thoughts were running through his head. They had two options. One – try to let the guy go, apologize and beg for mercy, try to shrug it off as a big misunderstanding. Two – a suicide mission of trying to fortify themselves and getting the world rid of both Winchesters. After all, there were three of them on a known territory with every weapon possible and more and only two of them. One, if they counted out the already imprisoned one. They had a head start and a first target in a room behind a huge ass door with a barred window. Yet somehow he was leaning towards the first option anyway. Sure, there were rumors. The Apocalypse, all the creepy–crawlies imaginable, the demon war, some crazy fuckers even mentioned angels. And a name Winchester along the line. Some pretty distressing shit, if you asked him. But had to come from somewhere. Not a healthy equation. Those guys were quickly and disquietingly becoming walking legends in the hunter world and if they were supposedly killing angels and slaying their ways through infernal hordes, he was pretty sure a situation like that would be just a major inconvenience on their purposeful path. He didn’t want to be an inconvenience.

Breathing evenly and trying to calm himself, he stood up and cleared his throat. He didn’t hear anything coming from inside the room, so he peeked through the bars. Sam Winchester was splayed over a chair, long legs stretched out in front of him and good God, he had to be tall. From all the stories he heard he didn’t really expect what he saw. He thought of Sam in lines of bulky, muscles with muscles, military haircut and hollow eyes filled with overflowing evil kinda guy. Instead he got this tall, long–haired kid with a blank gaze staring through the wall. Not only tall, but also built, well–toned. Absolutely proportionally, he would tower over anyone John knew. And maybe he expected someone older. Looking at him now, he had a hard time believing it was a person capable of holding down a demon or chopping someone’s head off. Then he noticed how Winchester had his hands wrapped around himself protectively, some blood staining his shirt. He groaned inwardly. So that’s how they managed to get a jump on him. Probably snatched him out of bed, drugged and wounded after some earlier hunt. This was bad. And then the kid’s head snapped in his direction, as if he sensed movement. He didn’t speak up, just stared. Quiet and unnerving. Waiting. John cleared his throat again and moved closer to the barred window.

“Hey,” he started. Winchester didn’t even twitch. “I’m really sorry for all this,” he said and grimaced at the words. It sounded so cheap. He was just about to apologize again and send the guy on his way, when he heard Gary.

“What are you doing?” wary.

“I’m letting him go,” answered John frostily. “We don’t need any more trouble.”

“We’re not letting him go,” insisted Gary.

“Have I not explained the situation to you clearly enough?” he looked at his partner incredulously. Seriously, what the hell? “We need to let him go.”

“No,” snapped Gary. “We need to kill him. Same goes for his weak coward of a brother.”

John turned around jerkily, gauging Winchester’s reaction to the jab. Not good, not good. No way he didn’t hear that. But he was only staring at the wall again, disconnected, with hands around his middle. Gary was getting cocky and superior, in other words – insanely stupid.

“Hey, you,” he called at the door and the prisoner inside. Exactly the point. “We’re going to kill you,” he taunted. Winchester didn’t move, but John thought he heard what sounded chillingly like ‘good luck with that’. Gary didn’t seem to notice and continued pushing.

“And then we’re gonna kill your bitch brother,” instead of murdering Gary with his eyes and maybe even trying with his hands, the corner of Winchester’s mouth just curved slightly upwards. Which was so much worse.

“How long have I been here?” John heard an unfamiliar, eerily curious voice and it took him a while to connect it to the guy behind the steel door. Gary looked stricken, having been completely ignored. John looked at his watch, counting quietly.

“About nine hours,” escaped his mouth. Winchester nodded thoughtfully and seemed to have gone away again.

“Why?” John narrowed his eyes at him, panic and desperation slowly creeping up, taking over his limbs and throwing them around. The guy didn’t answer, absolutely oblivious to anyone’s presence. He adjusted the grip on his middle. Had to hurt like a bitch by now. “Why?” he repeated. Couldn’t shake off this not good, very bad feeling. He looked over at Gary, throwing metaphorical daggers and wishing for some real ones. His partner seemed to be a little uneasy. Then he pulled out his gun. John reacted on impulse and pried it out of his fingers. “No!”

“What the fuck, man?” his partner looked at him frustratingly.

“Just let him go,” John gritted through his teeth. “Let him go and maybe we’ll live.”

Gary shook his head disgustingly.

“Are you really that naïve?” his partner’s eyes were piercing through him. “Come on, dude! We couldn’t be in a better position. It’s just a guy, an evil son of a bitch at that, and he needs to be put down. How are you even a hunter with a pussy like that?”

John decided to ignore the incursion at his manhood and decided to look at the situation rationally. On some level, Gary was right. After all, they were all just human. Even the Winchesters, no matter what others were trying to believe. Right? _Right_?

“What about Roy and Walt, then?” he couldn’t help asking. “They were swearing their heads off they shot them. Right in the fucking chest, they said. Took them both by surprise, sleeping. Both. And even then they had enough common sense to get rid of the brother after they were made. Don’t you think there’s a reason they did so? We’re on a fucking platter!”

Gary pressed his lips into a thin white line. And then,

“Why would you even think he’d find us in a first place, huh?” he looked at John defiantly. “We made a pretty good job at snatching him outta there.”

“Yeah, and how was that exactly?” John couldn’t help but sound irritated. “Fucking kidnapping him out of a hotel room when his brother probably wasn’t even there! If that doesn’t scream provocation, I don’t know what does!” he was getting red in the face. “Of course he’ll find us. Have you ever listened to the stories till the end or just idiotically stopped after the ‘he has to die’ part?”

“I listened,” Gary went into defense. “So what? Nobody knows for sure.”

“Maybe because no one ever lived long enough to talk about it!” John yelled, not caring about subtlety anymore. He glanced anxiously over his shoulder. Winchester was still in the chair, but seemed more folded into it. It still looked like he was completely unaware of his situation, still relaxed as much as his condition allowed him to be, but something changed. Maybe it was a different set to his shoulders, maybe just this little tenseness, readiness radiating from him. You were in the business long enough, you learned to read the signs. And suddenly he could see the danger. Suddenly he could see the guy capable of killing. Capable of destroying. He blinked at the shock of this discovery. When he opened his eyes again, it was gone, as if he only imagined the whole thing. As if his mind was playing tricks on him. But if there was one thing he learned in his twenty–eight years of existence, it was to trust his instincts. And his instincts were screaming to get the fuck outta here, before it was too late.

Gary’s brow was twitching incessantly.

“Give me my gun back,” he said at last. “We’re gonna kill this motherfucker and then take care of the other one, if he comes sniffing around.”

John was pretty sure if the other one were ever to get here, it wouldn’t be to sniff around. He hesitated. Then he handed the gun over, sighing heavily, defeated. He was going to get out of here alone. He didn’t want to have anything to do with this.

Gary reloaded and without further ado, directed the gun at the chair through the bars at… nothing. What? John looked around, expecting Winchester to jump out of the corner and snap their necks. But nothing happened.

“What?” Gary voiced his thoughts. The room seemed empty, chair unoccupied. They didn’t hear a thing. “Come out, you fucker!” he growled. “Face it like a man.”

John didn’t even want to discuss how manly it was to aim a gun at someone in a closed space through damn bars. And then Gary started opening the vault door. 

“What are you doing?” he snapped out and held the handle. “Don’t walk in there.”

“I got a gun,” Gary miffed. Like that was what was making him the master of the situation. John stared at him.

“Whatever, man,” he said at last and stepped back. He wasn’t babysitting anyone anymore. They were so eager to get rid of their lives? Very well. Gary readied himself and jumped inside, first turning right and coming up with nothing, then starting left, when suddenly something happened so fast even John had trouble making out what was going on. There was a short scuffle; sound of a fist connecting with skin, a moan and Gary was backing out of the room with arms raised. John had his own gun in hand before he even realized what he was doing. Winchester noticed and swiftly moved back out of sight. Gary safely made it outside. He was bleeding from his nose and a split lip. Jesus.

John slammed the door closed immediately. Gary was swearing colorfully. His .44 was missing. Oh, that was bad, so very bad. He gripped Gary’s shirt and dragged him out of the room, before Winchester started blindly firing shots. It took all his willpower to stop himself from throwing ‘I told you so’s all around. And then everything got even crazier.

When they entered the living room, Dick was uncomfortably draped over the couch, unconscious. Or dead. John looked around, trying not to panic. Really, he hunted monsters for a living. Some cool blood would come in handy right now. He let go of Gary and took a firmer grip on the handle of his gun. His partner was trying to stop the bleeding as well as get his hands on one of the sew–offs in the drawer. Just when he pronounced the room clear, he heard a jarring sound next door and instantly connected it to the steel door handle. Oh Lord. They were screwed.

He glued his back to the wall next to the door, waiting. He saw Gary do the same on the other side. It was the only entrance; there was no way Winchesters were getting out of here. He had no idea how the older one got inside unnoticed in the first place. The thing was, he was there and John knew better than to just barge in. He risked a fast glance inside and saw Sam coming out of the safe room, gun ready, but nobody else in sight. Still, he immediately yanked his head back.

“Pay up, loser,” he heard a smooth, deep voice and it sure wasn’t Sam’s. They had both fucking Winchesters under their roof. Fucking damn it! They should have more time. The dots shouldn’t be as easily connected. Gary and Dick couldn’t be that sloppy, come on. Or they could’ve at least taken care of the situation before he made it back to their hiding spot. But no, they had to fucking wait till he got back from a hunt, like idiots they were. And now he landed smack in the middle of something he didn’t even sign up for.

“No way, dude!” that was Sam and he sounded somehow outraged, voice strong, not even shaken a bit, as if he were the one in control all this time. Well, now that you look at it, maybe he was right. “Right after those cannibal psychos you said seven, eight hours tops. It’s been nine,” a sound of cocking a gun accompanied this sentence. John swallowed, tried to control his breathing. Was this some kind of slang? Code? Was he supposed to understand?

“Yeah, well,” Dean huffed. “I came back later. Got caught up with finishing the job. Whatever. I’m just embarrassed you even managed to get yourself swiped so many damn times anyway.”

John was straining his ears, trying to catch what was going on during the conversation. He could see Gary trying to do the same and just as obviously failing.

“Two words,” said Sam emphatically. “Black Dogs.”

John felt a prickle in his neck. So that’s where the gash was from. Fucking Christ, Black Dogs. Black Dogs, fucking Black– As in plural. They never met anyone who took on even one. They just vaguely possessed knowledge of them. And they weren’t just lore. They weren’t– Holy hell. Who were those guys?!

There was a quiet shuffle after that, a little painful groan.

“Just swallow it,” came Dean’s voice, irritated. “Hell, I’m gonna kill someone tonight,” he grumbled gravelly a second later and John couldn’t suppress a cool shiver. He saw Gary readying himself to run into the room. He shook his head frantically, trying to get him to abort.

“They’re people,” answered a quiet voice; Sam’s, without a doubt, earnest. Gary stopped.

“They’re hunters,” came his brother’s counter. “Another ones. Not to mention, completely incompetent. The hell is it with them and trying to get rid of the good guys?”

There was a moment of silence and something must’ve happened inside out of his sight, probably some voiceless parallel discussion the Winchesters seemed to have reached a conclusion to, because one moment John and Gary were hoping for them to walk out blindly out of the room, maybe having forgotten about some additional locators, and next they were being swiftly disarmed by two mountains of men. He was on the ground in a second, knife at his ankle too far to reach unnoticed. That was it, that was how he was going to die. Almost two years hunting ghosts and killing things one could only dream of and this was how he was going to go. He heard a whimper and only after a while did he realize he was the one making the sound. Sweet holy mother of Christ, he was pathetic. He stared up at the guy standing over him. Really built, roughened up by life and too handsome for this job. Wielding a lanky five–foot–five frame himself, he felt an irrational prickle of jealousy. Winchesters weren’t stingy on genes and ironically now he could easily understand the reputation the older one got.

“Where do wimps like that even come from?” John heard a disbelieving tone in a voice coming out of Dean’s mouth as he turned to look at his brother and he felt a sudden rush of righteous anger. But then this green–eyed stare pinned him to the floor again. “I swear, Sam. One of these days I’m gonna have to rescue you from a kindergarten.”

And then everything went black.

 

 

When he woke up, everything hurt and the right side of his face was basically on fire. Careful not to make a sound, he discreetly looked around. He was still in their house. Okay, he still got a chance. Trying to stand up from an unusually uncomfortable position, he realized his hands were tied behind his back and his ankles immobilized the same way. Sudden rush of panic waved through him before he noticed nobody else was in the room. That didn’t mean anything, but still got him a few moments to figure out what to do. Most probably he was on his last countdown.

He tried to reach the blade hidden at his ankle and came up with nothing. Then heard muffled noises coming from the other side of the room. He stilled his movements abruptly and turned his eyes that way. It was almost completely dark, only source of light being a narrow streak of yellow coming out from behind the door to the corridor.

Finally he recognized a familiar figure.

“Gary?” he risked quietly.

All the movement stopped and that was all the answer he needed.

“What the hell?” he heard at last. “John? Johnny? You alive?”

“Obviously,” he snapped. “How long have you been conscious?”

“’Bout some–teen minutes,” came an instant response. “Haven’t seen anyone, but I think Dick’s in the room too.”

John could make out a note of uncertainty in the statement.

“Shouldn’t he be awake by now?” he asked what was almost visibly hanging in the air. No answer came. And right then he heard a faint shuffle followed by a groan.

“Dick?” came Gary’s voice. “That you, man?”

There was silence for a moment, then another moan.

“Someone played football with my head,” John sighed in relief at the sound of a familiar voice.

“I might have a vague idea who,” he said and started pulling at his restraints. From the feeling of it, it was duct tape and rope. Rolling onto his stomach, he tried sliding his knees up underneath himself, still monitoring his surroundings, ready to drop motionless at the slightest notion of danger. After some pretty heavy struggling, he managed to climb onto his feet and keep some questionable balance. Squinting, he could make out a path to their emergency weapon drawer. As quietly as possible, he jumped over there, conscious of Gary’s attempts at doing the same. Dick was just lying there, holding the ground tightly as if scared of falling off its face.

With every passing moment, John was getting more and more confident there was no one besides them here anymore, unless the Winchesters were hiding out in the bathroom or a dark kitchen. He seriously doubted they would be willing to risk hanging out in the safe room. Fucking Winchesters. Fucking Gary and his fucked up ideas. And fucking Dick, for following him blindly in every stupid endeavor.

The drawer was empty.

 

 

It took them hours to bare–handedly get rid of all the knots and duct tape after they realized there was nothing in the house that could help them. Forks, knifes, guns, razors, nothing. Not even spoons. All their secret stashes, all hidden storages. Everything was stripped bare. They had to sit back to back with Gary and blindly try to untie all the ropes. Their phones were gone as well; there was no way to contact the outside world. For a long time barked orders and swearing were the only sounds heard. Nobody made an appearance.

 

 

“Son of a– ” Gary stopped, speechless. All their stuff was in the front yard on a big, chaotic pile. Thrown together without any kind of order. Everything. Guns, knives, kitchen and bathroom utensils. And bullets. Bullets all over the place, like a deadly sprinkling over a steel cake. “I’m gonna kill them!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, forest swallowing the forceful echo. The sun was almost up; it was chillingly cold. “Fucking psychos!”

John didn’t even want to get into it. From what he’d imagined, they should be long dead, swimming in some swamp, never heard of again. If Gary continued with his obsession with the Winchesters, especially now, he was splitting from them. Partners, friends, doesn’t matter. He wasn’t suicidal. His choice of profession might have claimed otherwise, but he didn’t care. He was not going to get involved in some crazed manhunt.

Gradually all the equipment was finding its way into their quarters again, thanks to John and Dick’s combined strength. Gary was running around like a mad man, trying to find any trace of Winchesters' existence, but it was like they were never there. No sign of Sam’s blood, no footprints, none of the stuff they picked off of him before throwing into the safe room to his death. If it wasn’t for the massive body ache and the weapon pile, John was even willing to believe it was all a terrible dream.

 

 

Gary, utterly humiliated, was swearing his head off he was going to find them and stuff their asses with gunpowder. But just as well as Gary was apparently a pro at leaving breadcrumbs behind, the brothers were like fucking ghosts. Only it was so much easier to pick out a ghost. The Winchesters were completely gone, a silent warning left behind them. Next time they weren’t playing around. John was absolutely willing to drop the matter and get on with his life. For the first time, Dick seemed to be with him on this one. Gary only got worse, claiming Sam to be a walking devil, trying his best to track him and his brother down, find something, anything about them. But everyone was silent, nobody wanted to talk, they even got a personal warning from the famous Bobby Singer to back the hell off, because the Winchesters were losing their patience.

Gary was still frantically looking, trying to connect what only seemed to be dead ends. He wanted the Winchesters tortured; he wanted their admittance to being all that’s wrong with the world. He wanted to find them.

He never did.


End file.
